“Yes. Again, this isn’t a matter of preference. It’s a matter of the space being inaccessible while it sounds like this. I know you don’t mean any harm in it, and it’s your choice whether or not you decide to alter your”—I glance over my shoulder at the empty easels—“client experience. However, we’ll have to leave unless you can find something equally ‘romantic’ but gentler on the ears.”

Grace sighs heavily. “Well. I suppose I can scrounge up something a bit less inspired but still appropriate for a night of impassioned painting.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.” I turn, then pause. “Do you happen to have that wine somewhere nearby? I think the lady could use a glass.”

—

“Welcome,” Grace says, “to a night in which we will touch into the tenderness of our hearts and allow art to bond us deeper to our partners.”

Bea takes a large gulp of wine.

“This evening is a special one,” Grace says to us and to the other couple who joined us right before we started. They sit up front, a late-in-life duo who can barely keep their eyes off each other. “Paint to Your Heart’s Content is a unique guided artistic experience. You aren’t here simply to mimic my masterpieces—”

Bea chokes on her wine.

I arch an eyebrow.

“Come on,” she whispers hoarsely. “Masterpieces?”

Thankfully, we’re in the back, and Grace doesn’t hear us over the melodramatic string music that I’ve had to ask her to turn down. Twice.

“You’re here,” Grace says, “to paint from your heart, to express its vision of your lover’s likeness, with my help. I will be assisting your technique while modeling the process with my own inamorato.”

This time I almost crack, straightening my face just in time to hide it behind a fist, then a throat clear. Grace’s inamorato strolls out. If he’s older than me, I’ll eat my glasses. He also looks like an underwear model.

“Damn,” Bea says.

“Hey.” I drag her stool closer. “You’re with me.”

She glances back my way. “What?”

“I said”—I drop my voice and lean close, breathing in her soft scent and barely resisting the urge to press a kiss to her neck—“you’re with me.”

“Oh.” She smiles. “Don’t worry. He’s not my type.”

I narrow my eyes. “What is your type?”

“Tall, dark blond, and stuffy.” She looks me up and down. “Obviously.”

My heart stutters before my mind snags on that last word. “I am not stuffy.”

“You’re stuffy,” she says, sipping her wine. “And starchy. And so buttoned-up. It’s precious.”

“Precious,” I mutter, tugging her stool even closer to mine.

“And now,” Grace says, “we will begin.”

We’ve clearly missed her opening remarks, because Grace has opened her paints and is discussing blending colors. As she speaks, her model glances out and smiles, his eyes lingering on Bea.